


Communication Loves an Enemy

by powercorruptionlies



Series: A Patient Cured is a Customer Lost [1]
Category: Proof (1991)
Genre: Attempted Sexual Assault, Blindness, Epistemology, Gen, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-08
Updated: 2020-08-08
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:14:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25747990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/powercorruptionlies/pseuds/powercorruptionlies
Summary: 'How do you think I feel, looking at everything with the innate knowledge that it's going to die?'Set before the events of the film.
Series: A Patient Cured is a Customer Lost [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1866394





	Communication Loves an Enemy

Martin pressed each of his fingertips into his knees, one by one. 

_...two, three, four, five. One, two..._

The waiting room of _Vision Australia_ smelt like it was made to capacitate people much older than he was - it was a musty, sweet sort of smell that he associated with care homes and the geriatric ward of the North Shore Hospital, which had been right next to the ophthalmology ward. He supposed that it _was_ meant to support older people, based on the descriptions his last carer had given him of the photos he'd taken the last time he was here ('oh, yes, that bloke's rather... aged. So is she... and her... and him... in fact, Martin, you may well have been the youngest applicant in that day!'). So much for her, and her exuberance, and the way she said he needed feeding up, and how she wouldn't just describe his photographs in a straightforward way, as he _specifically asked_ , but would instead provide a circumlocutory story about her own children, and grand-children, and great-grandchildren, right towards the end of her tenure, that somehow related back to the picture - she'd passed in her sleep, the man at the door had told him just a week ago, a man who refused to have his photo taken and wouldn't describe himself to Martin, much less what would happen to Martin next. He'd eventually found out, through a surprising phone call at some horrendous hour of the morning - Martin could tell: there was hardly any light in the room, seeping in through the curtains as oils and other nuisances sink through pores - that he'd have somebody take him to the Home Support Services in the coming days ('so keep your eye - pardon the expression - on the door, son.' This, as Martin saw it, _insipid_ remark was met with: 'if you'd care to consult your own company's leaflets, it clearly states that one should not omit words like _see_ and _look_ from their vocabulary, as it's awkward, and unnecessary.') 

_Four, three, two,_ _one_.

The light in the room changes, as the blur Martin sees day in, day out, brightens around the edges. The sun must've come out from behind the clouds, he thinks, arbitrarily, because it's not as if he knows exactly what that common phrase means. He heard it all the time: walking through the park, or if Agnes decided to stop washing dishes for a minute and tell him what was happening outside, on the TV, in songs. The sun was _yellow,_ and when he was bothered to inform somebody that he didn't know what yellow looked like, they'd say it was a _warm_ colour; but warm was just a feeling, a feeling Martin seldom got. Even when he did feel it when out on a walk, or wrapped in a scratchy woollen jumper, he couldn't find it in himself to imagine a _colour_ for what he was feeling. It was a pain on his nerve endings, and uncomfortable, and cloying, but it did nothing to medicate the nothingness he saw. 

_One. One. One. One._

A door clicked on the opposite side of the room, and Martin's head turned acutely towards it. He waited through the flipping of copious pieces of paper, fingernails on the back of a wooden clipboard, before he heard the sounds of mastication, and then his name. He jerked his arm into the air, wrist twitching slightly, lowering it as he heard the sound of shoes squeaking along the floor. 

'Martin, it's Cherise,' the woman stated, laying the back of her hand against Martin's. He drew his arm away as soon as her knuckles met his (the feeling had always been unsettling and somewhat electrifying to him) and trailed his fingers up the length of her arm until he caught it, just above the notch of her elbow. She rose up, taking him with her. 'We're just going to go straight ahead, so we can have a chat, and you can meet your new carer.'

 _Carer_. What a dreadful word. Martin had revisited it in his dictionary, time and time again; time and time again, he found a new reason to loathe it on principle.

_Carer_   
_noun_   
_a family member or paid helper who regularly looks after a child or a sick, elderly, or disabled person._

When he was younger, his problem had been the word 'family': this made it seem as if a carer was first and foremost your family, or maybe the other way around; regardless, the connotations of this greatly conflicted, he felt, with the way in which his mother had acted, and that somewhat _proved_ that a carer could not be a family member. On later readings, the issue lay with the word 'paid'. Yes, they were paid, but not nearly enough - and the second issue with this being the reminder that he was a job, a chore, something to be handled. Finally, and the most exigent issue, were the types of people carers were assigned to: 'child, sick, elderly, or disabled.' Martin knew he wasn't a child, nor elderly, and that he did not _feel_ sick in the traditional sense of the word - but he was disabled, a word he wished he did not hate, but had no choice, for the usage of it from school children, which was cruel and taunting; and from doctors and therapists and other adults, which was pitying and sympathetic; and lastly from his mother, which was nothing short of inattentive and loathing. What's more, he could not see beyond the idea that it implied that the wider world saw him as nothing more capable than a dependent child, or an incontinent old man, or somebody bedridden and ailing. Martin felt he was more than this - knew, rather. He can walk, he can pour a bowl of cereal. He could always tell when Agnes had been to her son's house or her daughter's flat or her other daughter's grave based on the scent that followed her. He can pour wine perfectly - spillages are always by design. He can take _photographs_. A visual pursuit. 

_Carer_. A humiliation, a stigma. He followed Cherise, a step behind her, as he'd always been told to do.

-

The office was silent, aside from the sound of a pen scratching along paper somewhere from his left, and the intermittent scuffing of shoes along the carpet. The joints in his fingers ached. The pen stops, and the sound of it clicking closed rings out emphatically.

'I think we're good to go. Martin, I'm going to introduce you to your new home support carer, alright?'

'Yes.'

'Fabulous. She's to the left - pardon, I mean right - ' Martin flushed and looked, futilely, in the other direction. He felt baleful already, and tired of the competing noise from somewhere outside the room, a metallic clanging.

'What's that noise?' He interrupted. 

'It's raining, Martin. It's hitting against the metal roof,' Cherise rushed out, impatient to continue with the pleasantries. 

'It was sunny just a minute ago. Can you see the rain?'

'Weather isn't static, Martin.'

'I know. Can you see the rain?'

'Not from in here, you can't.'

Martin ventured to say something in return, but his breath hitched in his throat. Cherise took this as a perfect opportunity to continue.

'To your _right_ is Celia. Celia, if you could shake Martin's hand, or familiarise yourselves in some way?'

He extended his arm long before the dragging of shoes along the carpet could sound - he suspected that this was the cause of the faint laughter, which felt as if it were coming from all around him, rather than right in front of him alone. A hand slipped into his own: small, unlike Anges', and smooth, unlike Agnes'. Her nails were sharpened to a point, he could feel them piercing the flesh of his palm, and felt like plastic rather than keratin. He continued to run his thumb along the back of her hand, intrigued by the lack of thick, squidgy veins pushing up skin, and dryness, and moles. Celia dropped his hand soon after, but he felt her presence beside himself still. 

'Wonderful.' (Martin found himself growing tired of her affirmative sentence openers, as if she thought abstract verbal cues were helping him in any way) 'So, Martin, Celia's newly qualified, but she's had experience in palliative care ward,' (Oh, great, Martin thought) 'so you're neither of you are being cast in at the deep-end.'

'I would argue that I am,' Martin said. Cherise doesn't say anything. 

'She's a really great gal, Martin. Totally attentive, goes above and beyond.'

_Well, yes, but her last patient died within a few days, so it's hardly an exertion on her part._

'Even better, she's about your age - right Celia?'

'Yep, twenty-seven.'

He hears hands hit something solid, almost triumphantly. 'There you go. Two years in it. Plenty to bond over.'

'Doesn't she have anything better to do?'

Cherise choked on her words.

'Sorry, Martin?'

'What's a twenty-seven year old doing looking after the terminally ill and the blind?'

'Well, I also look after children - '

'Thank you Celia,' Cherise interjected, sighing. 'Martin, I know you were fond of Agnes - '

'I wasn't.'

' - but you do need a new carer in the home. Isn't it nicer to have somebody your own age?'

Martin chewed on his lip. What _were_ people his own age? What did they look like, what sort of things did they like doing - you know, the things you can do when you've got decent vision? He knew that people his age were more apathetic, and possibly less... _pitying_. Agnes was full of affirmation and _'oh, Martin, don't think that this defines who you are_ ,' completely out of the blue, and people Cherise's age (forty-five, Agnes had told him) seemed plainly condescending and exasperated by him. Maybe somebody like Celia wouldn't give him the time of day at all, and be in and out of his house without a word - and, if he really wanted to, he could propitiate a new piece of the puzzle, the puzzle of the world (or, at least, the greater Sydney area).

'Alright. Nice to meet you, _Celia_.'

'And you, Martin.'

-

Celia drove him home, trying to get information out of him that he'd never even think of asking another person - not for misanthropical reasons, no, there were a completely different variety of things he didn't want to know on that account - but because they were so _bizarre_.

'What's your mother's maiden name?'

'I'm not sure.'

'Oh. What was her name, then?'

'Nancy.'

'Middle? If any?'

'Pamela.'

The car drew to a stop. The _c_ _hing_ of a bicycle bell came to a crescendo as it passed the passenger side window. Martin turned to look out of it. He reached his hand up and found the it was rolled down, just a crack, and that the air was still outside. 

'What about your father, Martin?'

'I don't have one,' he gritted.

Celia laughed. 'Come on, Martin, everybody has a father.'

He groaned, ever-so quietly. The benefits of visual impairment (an oxymoron of the highest degree, Martin reckoned) included, and were largely limited to, finely tuned hearing. He had the upper hand, aurally. He could control his own vocal ticks and expressions of displeasure or excitement, whilst he was keenly listening to everybody else's and reading them like a book through their sighs or expletives said under breath, things they thought he couldn't pick up on.

'Well, if I did, I certainly never knew about it.'

'Martin Sr., perhaps?'

'I'd appreciate it if we didn't speak about my family. Or _me_ , really.'

He sensed movement again, and the air started flowing through the car. It was stuffy and warm and made him feel as if he were gagging on every breath. 

'Very well. I'm just concerned about getting to know you, is all.' 

There was something coquettish about her tone, something that made it sound like doublespeak. Martin's jaw hurt with the strain of frowning. 

'How close are we to my home?'

'A few blocks.'

'Celia, you're not here to be my friend, you're my housekeeper, end of,' Martin says before he can second-guess himself.

'I know.'

'I never told Agnes anything and we got on just fine.'

Martin doesn't allow himself to dwell on the falsity of this in preference for not having to think too deeply about himself for an extended period of time, and the sound of the rubber tyres crunching along the tarmac in the way that they did exclusively in his neighbourhood, as the council never bothered to resurface the road. The truth was, Agnes, whether she'd meant to or not, had managed to finagle bits and pieces of Martin's life from him, purely through talking about herself so much. He suspected that this had been her goal all along, and would be impressed that she'd managed to execute it so well, had he not been bitter that he'd let his guard down like that. It won't happen again, he swore to himself as the car came to a definitive stop, the crunch of the gear stick and unlocking of doors indicating this. 

'Well, we're here. Would you mind if I came in?'

'Why?' Martin wrapped his fingers around the cold metal of the handle, pulling on it with little conviction. 

'I think I should know my place of work, and you can tell me what you'd like done when I come next week. I like to be prepared, Martin.'

He heard the sound of plastic things knocking together - they were small and copious - as well as leather being strained and rustled about. Martin pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth, savouring the clench in his jaw and twinge in his neck, before pushing his way out of the car, deftly unfolding his cane and working his way to the door. 

'Come on, then. But only for a minute. I'd rather like to be alone.'

The house was frigid and wasn't registering as bright as the outside had. Martin slid his hand along the wall, the textured wallpaper making his fingertips tingle, searching for the light switch. It's taking longer than usual and he found himself flustered, beside himself that he should be making a first impression of incompetence to Celia. Then, there's a click, and light floods what little he can see. 

'What-'

'Turned it on for you, Martin.' Those smooth hands wrap around his wrist without warning and he tries to buck out of the grasp. With a few persistent tugs, his fingers found themselves pattering on the bump of the light switch. 'See? Only a few more inches and you would've gotten it, mm?' 

Martin felt his mouth quiver in indignation, fighting for words, desperate to give Celia a semblance of who he really was - not a blind man who didn't even know his way around his own home. Failing this, he twists his arm away from her and places his hand neatly - safely - in the pocket of his trousers. 

'I'm quite capable.'

'I never said you weren't, Martin. Now, do I get a tour?'

She threaded her arm through his elbow, and he couldn't find it in himself to pull away. 

'A blind man giving a tour,' he tried to joke, making the embarrassment his own, as if he were totally aware and comfortable with the occasional blunder.

'I'm sure you'll manage. This looks like the living room...'

Celia veered them to the left, the only room she could've gotten to from the hallway. Of course he knew it was the living room, he'd lived here for almost all of his adult life, but there was something almost easy about letting Celia assume that he was truly _that_ oblivious to his surroundings. He can see the shapes of his furniture and the otiose television in the corner because sometimes he presses the right buttons on it and it produces sound, and a weird, bluish sort of light - but she needn't know that, not yet. They were off to a bad start, a tool that Martin figured he could use to surprise her later. There was something satisfying about giving her something to pity, and ripping the rug out from beneath her feet before she could build her relationship with him, solely on that. Agnes knew not to make that sort of thing _too_ obvious, but the feeling still remained, as it was expected for people to feel the need to possess a sort of melancholy for his situation, a situation they couldn't even begin to imagine. 

'I shouldn't think you'll be doing an awful lot in here.'

'No? Not dusting, vacuuming...'

Martin clicked his tongue, walking them towards the next room over - the kitchen, where it still smelt of lemon disinfectant from the last time Agnes came round, and in part because Martin had started to clean it himself, to little avail. 

'Well, at some point, but mainly I need somebody to do the dishes, sort out the laundry.'

Celia hummed a laugh, again. 'See, Martin? This is what I wanted - needed - to know. I like to be prepared - '

'You said,' Martin cut in, words clipped, dismissing her from the conversation in hopes it would dismiss her from something greater.

'Right, well... how about we have lunch together, keep chatting, mm?'

Martin huffed. Her vocal cues were almost as insidious as Cherise's - _mm_ s, all coy and maternal; saying _see_ with a sort of superfluousness that felt purposeful. Martin could tell himself that he was only being cynical, because of course he was, developing all of this within an hour of knowing the woman. There was something to be said, however, for knowing your defences early on, Martin figured. 

'How about your bedroom, Martin?'

'No, that won't be necessary.'

'Alright. So, lunch. Yes, or no?'

'No.'

'Maybe another time, then.'

Her arm left the crux of his own. He was happy to flex his forearm out, extending the stretch to the tips of his fingers and feeling it double back to his knuckles. 

'You can see your way to the door, I'm sure,' Martin suggested.

'Alright, Martin. I'll see you next Wednesday, yes?'

'Yes,' he said, not dedicating an iota of his tone to accommodate the disappointment in her own.

A few taps of her - probable - heels later, and then the door creaking open, and clicking shut again, Martin was alone in his house, suddenly wishing he had somebody to tell him which cereal he had in the cupboard; or what vegetables he had in the bottom of the fridge; or how clean the bowls were in the cabinets. He's capable of all that himself, he thought, rather convinced himself, and flitted his hands from surface to surface to suss out his space as if feeling it for the first time all over again. 


End file.
